Dreaming Doors to Your Mistakes
by authoressnebula
Summary: Post 3x10: Complications with the dream root have Dean going into Sam's dreams to find his brother. Hurt!Sam, worried!Dean. Credit to Evanescence and Elizabeth Bishop for use of their works.


_Bound at every limb by my shackles of fear  
Sealed with lies through so many tears  
Lost from within, pursuing the end  
I fight for the chance to be lied to again_

_You will never be strong enough  
You will never be good enough  
You were never conceived in love  
You will not rise above  
"Lies" - Evanescence_

* * *

He only closed his eyes for a moment, just as exhausted as his brother.

When he opened them again, he was surrounded by white cloth, singed with burn marks.

* * *

Dean stared in the mirror for a little bit more, then slowly pulled away. He didn't always hate what he saw. He just...couldn't see anything worth saving. Didn't know sometimes why Sam kept trying, but god, the kid wouldn't give up.

Saving Sam had been fair; he had so much for the world, and Dean wasn't going to let anything happen to him. Sam was supposed to have been John's son, then Dean's brother. Dean wasn't supposed to have gotten both duties.

Out of the dream world and the suffocating nightmare edging in on all sides, though, Dean remembered the part worth remembering. Sam had never looked up to Dad for help or guidance; not really. Dean had been his everything. Wasn't hard to believe; Sam had always been his everything, and that had come from orders well above Dad.

Speaking of his mother's son...he leaned in the doorway of the bathroom, snorting in amusement at the sight of his not so little brother sprawled on his bed, out for the count. Kid had stayed awake with him for two whole days, and while the usual insomniac hadn't said anything about being tired, Dean knew his brother. Sam was beyond tired, and Dean knew he hadn't been a picnic those two days, running on caffeine, fear, and restlessness.

Dinner sounded good. They'd passed that diner on the edge of town; he knew Sam's choices, wouldn't bug the kid for an order. Still, he wasn't going to leave without letting Sam know he was going out, if just for a short while. "Hey Sam," he called, stepping over and tapping at his brother's boot. (Hadn't even taken off his shoes; had to be absolutely wiped.) "I'm going out to grab dinner."

No response. Not even a twitch. Sam was further under than he thought. "Yo Sam," he tried again, reaching up to push gently at Sam's shoulder.

Sam's body followed the push and slid down to the left, completely slack.

"Sam?" Dean called again, anxious now. This was way too far under to be deemed asleep. "Sammy? Sammy, answer me." He reached out, shaking his brother's shoulders now. Sam's body merely swayed with the desperate gesture, and he still didn't wake up.

Dean slid his hands up to Sam's face, using his thumbs to pull back Sam's eyelids. Dull eyes that saw nothing gazed straight ahead. Sam wasn't home.

Dean tried to focus on breathing. Tried. But with Sam limp under him, it was a little hard to do that. Fear burst through, and Dean clasped Sam's face tightly between his hands and screamed.

"_SAMMY!_"

* * *

He was actually surprised at first that she didn't follow him, a little blonde wisp on the edge of his vision. At the same time, however, he was glad.

There were other things he needed to worry about besides her.

The hallway wouldn't end, and every doorway only opened to regret. Loss. Failure. All his own, all so much worse than he'd thought.

The art of losing isn't so hard to master; someone wise had said that once. They just left out one thing: it was hard to accept. He continued searching for the exit.

Through it all, Dean's screams echoed above and around him.

* * *

"He dream-tripped himself?"

"Drank the dream root twice, Dean, and he took control of not just your dream, but Jeremy's. Sam was bound to be messed up after that. That stuff is like a drug: if you're not used to it, which Sam wasn't, and then you take a double dosage in such a short amount of time, well... "

Dean wiped tiredly at his eyes. "Then what am I supposed to do, Bobby?" he whispered, staring at Sam's prone form on the bed. He'd arranged him in a more comfortable position while he'd waited for Bobby to return his call. Nothing else he could really do.

Bobby took a deep breath in, then let it out with resignation. "Exactly what I don't want you doin', which I'm sure you've got planned anyways, even though you both gave me the stuff to keep."

"I'm not leaving him like this. I won't."

"You also gotta consider what this would do to Sam. Of anyone I know, Sam likes his privacy."

"That's the least of my concerns. Kid doesn't hide anything from me, Bobby. I know all his dirty little secrets. Besides, he saw the inside of my head." The joking tone was replaced with a somber one. "I need some of that dream root."

Bobby sighed again. "Tell me where you are, and I'll drop some off."

Location was given, and Dean briefly considered dinner before tossing the idea aside along with his cell. Food wasn't on his mind right now. Sam was on his mind, and whatever his brother was doing to himself. He should've known; if he'd been his own worst nightmare, then of course Sam was his own, too.

He reached out and took Sam's almost lifeless hand in his own. "Hang in there, Sammy," he said, before whispering fiercely. "Big brother's on his way."

* * *

The hallways were closing in on him, forcing him to choose a door. Screams, fire, blood, tears that looked like blood while the fires screamed

He had to get out. The exit, where was the exit, he needed the ex

A hand reached for him, and he whirled around to see his Dad standing right behind him. "You did this," he rasped, and eroded right in front of him. Faded away to bones and blood, until nearly nothing was left save for the black eyes filled with condemnation and hatred. "Your brother told you what's dead should've stayed dead! He'll go the same way I did!"

He turned and began to run. Hands reached, clawing at him, pulling at him, hurting and twisting him. There had to be a way out, someway out, please let there be a way out Dean be okay I didn't mean to

_Help me please DeanbeokayI'llsaveyou_

* * *

The stuff tasted just as nasty as it had the first time down, but Dean ignored the taste. The room stayed the same, and he panicked for a moment, afraid that it hadn't worked.

Then Sam burst through the door, locking it behind him, pressing his back to the wood and panting harshly. Dean stood, refusing to look at the bed now, where Sam was probably still laying, prone. "Sammy?" he asked, stepping forward cautiously.

Sam turned wild eyes on him, staring in stunned silence. Then he hurried forward, but instead of the hug Dean was expecting, he grabbed his wrist and began to pull him towards the bathroom door. "Whoa, whoa, what're we doing?"

"Have to get you out," Sam muttered. "Won't let you scream anymore, promise. I'll get you out, I swear to god Dean, just help me get out, okay?"

Sam pushed at the bathroom door even as Dean tried to understand his brother's words. Suddenly flames pushed out, a woman's scream was heard, and Dean stared in horror into the bathroom that was now a nursery from years ago. "How did you know-?"

"Wrong one, gotta keep moving," and pulled Dean along down a sudden hallway.

There must've been over a thousand doors. It didn't help that Dean was still reeling from the fact that Sam knew exactly what had happened that night, when he'd been six months old.

"Sammy, talk to me, man," Dean tried, pointing at a door. "What about that one? We could-"

"No," Sam said, refusing to look at him as they continued on. "Can't stop; we have to get out."

Enough was enough. "You made me come in here to get you, you're gonna damn well _listen_, Sam," Dean said, pulling Sam back with frustration.All the words left his mouth, though, when Sam turned haunted eyes on him.

"I know what's behind these doors," Sam whispered. "That's why we can't go in them, Dean. I keep trying to hide everything behind the doors, but the locks are breaking. Most of them are already open; I can't hold it back anymore. So we have to keep moving, okay?"

Strangely enough, Dean actually understood what Sam meant. All his thoughts were here, locked away and pushed to the back of his mind, which was exactly where Sam was now trapped, with apparently no way to get to the front and take control. These weren't the good thoughts, either. "Sammy, this is a dream, okay?" he said softly, sliding his hand down from Sam's wrist to his hand and keeping his grip firm. Kid was gonna shake himself apart this way. "You wake up, this ends. We can both leave, then."

But Sam was shaking his head. "We can't leave," he whispered. "I've tried to get out, and I _can't_." He turned to face down the hallway that stretched before them. "We have to go," he said urgently, then tugged Dean after him again.

The pace was almost a run, but enough that Dean could see that each door was different. Some were black, others colorless but eroded, some regular brown wood but stained, others with blood oozing out from whatever was inside. Sam ignored them all, trying to keep to the center of the hallway. "Just keep moving," he murmured. "Don't want you to have to deal with it."

Dean frowned. "Deal with-"

A door burst open from the left, and even as Sam hurried ahead, Dean had to stop and stare, because it was himself being blown through a doorway in a rotten asylum. Sam stepped through after him, just as he had before, with himself sputtering on the floor for air. Without a word Sam's shotgun suddenly changed to a gun, and even as Dean watched the scene in horror, Sam leveled the gun on Dean and pulled the trigger. His other self stopped moving, sightless eyes gazing upward at the dirty ceiling.

Then his Sam was back at his side in the hallway, pulling him away. Dean turned to him with a frown, but Sam shook his head hard. "Don't say anything, I know what I did," he said in a rush, and they were moving again.

"Sammy, that didn't happen though," Dean tried to tell him. "I'm fine, we got out of it okay, you didn't shoot me in the head, okay?"

"It was my mistake," Sam said miserably, then softer, "My fault."

Mom on the ceiling; Dean in the asylum. Dean stared at the many doors they passed with growing dread. These weren't just Sam's innermost thoughts; these were what he thought were his _failures_. God, how often did the kid think about this stuff? Worry about it, enough to have to lock it away so it wouldn't torment him?

Dean pulled at his brother's insistent pull until he finally broke free. Sam's momentum kept him going for a few more steps, and Dean used the time to walk steadily towards a black door with the most intricate number of locks on it. "Dean, _no_!" Sam shouted behind him, but as soon as Dean touched it, the locks fell away as if they'd never existed. The door practically opened for him, and Dean stepped inside.

It was a muddy street that led to nowhere, and the mud felt cold through Dean's boots. In front of him was a lone child, one Dean would know anywhere. "Sam," he breathed, stepping forward. Sam looked to be about six, and Dean didn't remember this, because he'd been with Sam all the time when they'd been younger.

Sam looked frightened. When Dean turned to see what his gaze was locked on, he understood why.

A lone black figure stood, with no face save for two yellow eyes. "You're my favorite, Sammy," it whispered. "You always have been."

"No," Sam whispered back, stepping away. With each step, he seemed to grow: nine years old, thirteen years old, sixteen, twenty. "I don't want to be your favorite."

"You've always been my favorite," the demon whispered.

Sam shook his head rapidly, but then the figure was right up in front of him, causing him to gasp. "Get the _hell_ away from him," Dean snarled, moving fast and grabbing Sam's arm to pull him away.

Then it was _him_ being pulled, forward, and into a nursery Dean only remembered when he wanted to hurt. His mom wasn't burning yet, though, but the demon was still standing in front of him, now hovering over a much younger Sam. Sam was six months old in his crib, crying softly, and Dean started forward to stop whatever it was about to do when he saw the outstretched hand.

The demon's wrist was bleeding, bleeding right into Sam's mouth.

Dean stared.

"Sammy?"

Dean turned slowly at his mom's desperate voice, then stared again as she stopped dead at the sight of the demon. Horror filled her face, but it was a recognized horror, and the whisper was full of knowing dread.

"It's you."

A hand pulled him back, and he tumbled out of the nursery, through the mud, and into the hallway. Sam was twenty-four and trembling, shutting the door hard. Each lock was expertly thrown, quickly and silently, save for the sound of Sam's harsh breathing.

Then Sam turned and began to run down the hallway, except this time, he wasn't pulling Dean behind him. "Sam!" Dean shouted, hurrying after. "SAM!"

Sam was gone.

* * *

He'd seen it. The two things he'd tried to hide, the things that had damned him before he'd been able to walk or talk, and Dean had seen them.

Voices screamed around him, cried out for mercy, yelled in fury. He ignored them and pressed on, knowing there had to be a way out, a way to get Dean out, a way for this to _end_

The hallway ended abruptly, with a lone doorway that was open but darkened. He slid to a stop, staring in trepidation. It had to be the exit. The way out of his failures, his mistakes, his burden. The way for Dean to get out of the mess he'd created.

He stepped cautiously inside, hearing whispers of echoes, then reached for the light switch. There had to be one.

_Just like flipping a switch; then you get all sorts of new magic tricks._

No. He pulled his hand away as if burned. There'd be no flipping of switches, no easy way out of a hard problem. No, he wouldn't give in, wouldn't betray Dean anymore than he already

Claws wrapping around his arms were the only warning he got.

* * *

The hallway wouldn't end. Everywhere he went, Dean found doors and doors and rows more of doors. Dean had thought he was the one who kept secrets, but his own hallway had only been about seven or so doors long. Not this thousands upon thousands that Sam kept.

Soon as they got out of here, Dean was sitting Sam down for a talk about how to let things the hell go. This was beyond wrong.

Some of the things, Dean knew where they'd come from. The fight about Stanford, Jess, Max Miller...just to name a few.

Other things, though? Dean would've called his dad's fault, hell even his own. Like Mom on the ceiling. Or Dad's death. The Impala getting smashed. Cold Oak.

But it was all here, in Sam's doors.

Some of the stuff hadn't even really _happened_. Worst case scenarios, like the asylum and Sam really shooting Dean. Or Sam not getting there in time, and Max killing not just himself, but Dean as well. Or the hospital, taking not just John, but Dean as well.

Seriously. One hell of a long talk.

Other things Dean hadn't seen, but now knew more than he'd ever wanted to about them. Like of the last argument Sam had mentioned he'd had with their dad, where John had laid the blame of Dean's condition on Sam's shoulders. Or the witch demon they'd taken care of last week who'd taunted Sam, told him Dean was already dead, and someone was coming to wipe Sam out of existence. To challenge him for some throne.

He'd thought he'd known most everything about Sam. But this? His brother kept practically _everything_ to himself. It scared Dean. Either Sam had kept silent because he'd hated rehashing the events, or he'd been afraid of Dean's reaction.

Considering how Sam had pulled him from the one locked door, Dean was betting on the latter, and it wasn't a happy thought.

His dad suddenly appeared in the doorway, yelling at Sam, and Dean glared at him. "Just shut up already, all right?" he snapped. "Lay off Sam already."

He ignored whatever answer his dad might've had and turned instead towards the ceiling. "Sam! Dude, enough!" he shouted. "Stop all of this, and get us out of here!"

The doors all shut around him, causing him to jump. The silence after all the screaming and shouting was a little unnerving.

"Sam?" he called cautiously. No answer.

Then, a murmur in the air, no more than a breath. It was continuous, and it pulled him forward down the hallway.

Past multiple doors, the voice became louder, a hissing now that spoke in a rhythm. Another twenty doors, and Dean was able to figure out what it was saying.

_Never be strong enough. Never be good enough._

Dean didn't like where this was going.

Even as he began to run, the hissing picking up its pace and its volume, there was an end. An open doorway at the end of the hallway, a soft glow coming from far far within. He pushed himself even harder, afraid that just when he got there, it would shut in his face.

It was with a great deal of surprise, then, that he burst through and into the room. The glow was off to his right, but no further than five rooms or so.

He crept in quietly, the voices echoing in the room. The glow was a light that shone from nowhere and only hinted at what lay in the shadows. One figure shook in the center of the light, spread out limb from limb.

"Never be strong enough," was whispered again, and a shadow passed in front of the figure. "Never be good enough," and went back the other way.

It was only then that Dean was close enough to see that the figure was Sam.

"Sam!" he shouted, or tried to. His voice was carried away, lost to the corners of the darkness. He tried again with no more success. He ran forward instead, intent on pulling Sam away, and found himself hitting an invisible force only two feet from Sam. Close enough to see the tears and sweat on his face, his shredded clothes hanging from scratched limbs. Spread-eagled by nothing except dark shadows that pulled at his wrists and legs, head hung low to avoid the one that passed in front of him.

Dean pushed against the force holding him back, but couldn't get any further. He tried again from another side, and still couldn't get any closer. "Let him go!" he screamed, and it came out as a scratched whisper.

The shadow passed again, and Dean could've sworn he'd seen his mom's face in it. When it passed again, mocking Sam for not being good enough, he _knew_ he saw Jess. Then his dad, Max, Andy, Ava, Madison-

In desperation Dean began throwing himself against the force that held him from Sam. It wouldn't let him in, and he refused to let the tears of frustration fall. Not now, not when all he had to do was get to Sam.

The shadow stopped in front of Sam, finally. It loomed over Sam, causing him to shrink back even further, and Dean felt his stomach fall. It looked as if it were going in for the kill and there was only one face that hadn't been shown yet, one that had played such a crucial part in practically every one of Sam's doors. This was the face Dean least wanted to see, but knew if it was going to be any that destroyed his brother completely, it was going to be this one.

The features formed at last, and Dean stared as his own face glared down at Sam in pure hatred. "What's dead should stay dead," his own voice spat. "I should've known, should've let you stay dead. You're a demon child, and because of you, I will burn."

"Sam, _no_," Dean tried to shout, but his hoarse voice was no match for his sudden scream of rage.

"_I will BURN!_"

Dean shoved at the force holding him from his brother, and this time, it gave. He flew forward and into Sam, tackling him to the ground and out of the grasp of the shadows. "Sam, listen to me," he called desperately, not even pausing to marvel at his voice returned to him. He caught hold of Sam's face between his hands, turning him to look at Dean. "Listen to me! This is a nightmare, Sam. Wake up!"

"I'm...I'm sorry," Sam choked.

The shadows were mocking again, louder, and Dean leaned in closer. "Ignore them. They're not real, Sam. You hear me? Focus on me, Sammy. Just focus on big brother."

"I'm not...strong enough, and you'll burn..."

The miserable whisper only caused the hissing voices to crescendo. "No, I won't," he said firmly. "You know why? Because you can save me, Sam. I know you can. If anyone can get me out of that deal, it's you. Fully trusting you. And you know what? If you can't, then yeah, I don't want to go to hell, but I damn well will. I made that deal for you because this world without you? It's not worth living. You're not a demon or any other crap like that. You're my little brother, the pain in the ass that I love with every fiber of my being, who needs to _wake the hell up_!"

He sat up with a gasp, the complimentary hotel glass falling from his hands. His tail bone ached from the awkward position on the bed, but he didn't care.

Because next to him, in the other bed of the hotel room, Sam was sitting up, gasping for breath. His eyes turned everywhere, wildly searching the room, before landing on him. Dean merely gazed back, his breathing fast but his determination solid.

Sam looked away first, and Dean knew they'd still be having that talk later.

Later. Right now, they were out, Sam was awake. That was all Dean cared about.

* * *

He was terrified of falling asleep now. Knowing if he closed his eyes for just two seconds, he'd be back in the hallway with the doors.

Of course, it didn't really matter: Dean had seen it all now. Everything.

_Everything_.

"You wanna take a nap?" Dean asked from the driver's seat. "Ways to go before we get to Bobby's." They had to return the dream root.

"Nah, I'm fine," he said, stretching his arms. He flinched at the scratches underneath his shirt; Dean had bandaged the worst ones, simply treated the lightest, but they all still scratched and pulled.

A moment, he was surprised Dean waited that long, before speaking. "I never blamed you for Dad's death. Or for the Impala getting T-boned."

He blinked and glanced over at his brother. "Not once?" he found himself asking.

"Never," Dean said, almost vehemently. "Not for Mom's death, either."

He swallowed and turned away towards the window, but Dean refused to stop. "The only person who's ever blamed you for the psychic tendencies has been you, but frankly, I don't see it happening. You were a _baby_, Sam. Like you could've stopped that yellow eyed sonuvabitch from force-feeding you its blood."

"Dean-"

"Okay, fine, you wanna blame a Winchester, then blame Mom," Dean said, and that made him turn back fast enough to earn whiplash.

"W-What?"

"You heard me. Mom obviously knew something, and she didn't tell any of us."

"You can't blame Mom for this," he accused. "That's ridiculous." He couldn't believe Dean would even _dare_.

Dean leveled a steady gaze at him. "So's blaming you," he said. He turned away again, but this time only as far as the dashboard.

A soft sigh filled the quiet. "Sam, I'm serious. If the blame goes on anyone, it's on Mom. She apologized to you two years ago at our old place, remember? Maybe this was why. Frankly, though, I still wouldn't put the blame on her, because it all goes on the demon."

The realization was swift and shocking. "You're not mad at me." His eyes darted over to Dean, who was giving him a small, sad smile.

"What I've been trying to tell you for the past day, Sammy," he said gently. "The only thing I'm mad at you about is that you took all of this on by yourself. You have a problem with something, you don't hide it, you come tell me. Especially the big stuff like this that you freak out over. Okay?"

He nodded slowly. "Good," Dean said. "Now take a nap."

"What if..." And he hated himself for asking, but he had to. "What if I fall back in again?"

"Dream root should've worn off by now, so you'll be fine," Dean said casually, and he nodded in reply. No matter the dream root, he'd still have nightmares about the hallway and the doors for weeks.

He shifted in his seat, laying his head on the door of the Impala. His eyes stayed glued to the dashboard, watching the sun glint off of the black.

"Besides, if you fall in again and can't get yourself out, I'll just come get you again."

The voice was soft, the tone serious. If Dean had to, he'd go through it all again to get to him.

With a smile he finally closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were at Bobby's, Dean gently shaking him awake from the driver's seat.

* * *

___Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture  
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident  
the art of losing's not too hard to master  
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.  
"One Art" - Elizabeth Bishop_


End file.
